


Undertow

by rashaka



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Affection, F/M, Fluff, Kissing, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 18:39:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4636017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rashaka/pseuds/rashaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beneath the late afternoon sun, in a part of the world that was once Virginia and never will be again, pooling river water drifts in gentle eddies over the naked torso of a young man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undertow

**Author's Note:**

> Listening track: [[youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fkL6wR0xghA)]
> 
> A short fic for wanderinglilly, bellamyward, myso-calledlibrary, malietates, thatweirdparamedicstudent, halemaliia, ofmonty, singinglikeapenguin, keywordlydia, trashkingbellamy and the rest.
> 
> Y’all keep me entertained and writing way past when I should be asleep.

    Beneath the late afternoon sun, in a part of the world that was once Virginia and never will be again, pooling river water drifts in gentle eddies over the naked torso of a young man. He floats with his arms spread wide and both eyes shut against the light, his hair so dark it disappears in the shadows of the pool’s surface. Tiny drops of water bead on his chest, catching mirrored reflections of the sunlight as he inhales in steady, measured breaths. With his ears in the water, he doesn’t hear his attacker approach.

    Clarke kom Skaikru splashes him with a tidal wave right to the face.

    Bellamy flips up in a sputter, arms flailing as he shakes his head to get the water out of his nose. Kicking his feet to find the riverbed, he stands with the water up to his shoulders and sends her a deeply disappointed expression.

    “Can’t you relax for five minutes?”

    Clarke shrugs.  “At this point, probably not.”

    He watches her for a moment, this half-dressed girl in a ragged t-shirt with her cheeks burned pink by the sun. Then he takes a breath, and vanishes.

    They’ve never played this casually before, but six months on the ground has made Clarke both clever and vigilant; when he grabs her legs under the green surface she is ready for him. Scissor-kicking out, she tries to get her legs around his shoulders, where he’ll be forced to come up with her above him instead of dunked.

    Clarke might be quick, but Bellamy is a natural brawler; she really should have just swam off immediately. He might even have let her go.  But now the challenge has been issued and the first splash has been taken, so there is no retreat.  Two minutes of kicking, squealing, one yelp (she gets him in the knee), and a lot of pleading giggles result in Clarke trapped to his chest, her arms banging uselessly against his much larger ones. 

    “I’m always gonna win,” he says through a grin, and in that moment he means the words only as they are: a tease to a friend. 

    In his arms, Clarke quits moving, and stares at him.  “What?”

    “I said I—”

    “I heard what you said,” she interrupts, but before she can clarify one of her feet slips on a rock in the riverbed below, and she drops several inches. Bellamy reacts with a hard-learned speed; he yanks her back above the surface by two firm hands on her waist, and drags them several feet toward the bank, where he digs his feet into the rocky sand for purchase.

    When he stops Clarke has both legs loose around his hips, and she is decidedly not giggling anymore. She treads water in time with him, using his frame for her anchor.  Every time she looks, her attention returns unerringly to the water drops that cling like tiny pieces of sunlight to his hair and eyelashes. The river makes her t-shirt float up so that in order to keep her, his hands rest on her bare skin, out of sight.

    Clarke slides her arms high around his shoulders at the same time as Bellamy pulls her middle snug to his.  They watch each other for a little bit, both trapped in a silence that has gone on too long now to break. It’s in this strange position that Clarke finally does relax–her thundering heartbeat slows down as she soaks up the sensation of water all around them, drawing their bodies apart except where his hands keep her safely anchored. The endless tug of the undertow is slowed by the natural pool, made into soft caresses on every point of her skin. 

    He studies her as avidly as she studies him, and it’s intimate in ways that she and Bellamy have never been before. It feels like a miracle to simply  _be_ with someone, to hold each other and experience sensations they never could have shared on the Ark. Bellamy’s eyes are dark brown and shining, like the river stones that gleam in the water and the sun. Struck by an overwhelming fondness, she nudges his nose with hers.

    This has him break into a smile–a small one, almost like he can’t help himself—then he closes his arms suddenly and she’s brought up flush to him once again, from chest to hips. Everything about him is hard where she feels soft: the well-developed lines of his muscles tighten under her contact, and Bellamy ducks toward her for a slow, liquid kiss.

    Clarke’s ankles lock at the base of his spine, and her fingers ball into white-knuckled fists as she tangles them in her friend’s wet, tousled hair.  Bellamy pulls back from the kiss first, their foreheads making a triangle as they pant for air. He breathes deeply, as if kissing her was a far more taxing thing than to hold their shared weight steady in the pool, and his eyes fall off to the side. Clarke, with water lapping at her shoulders, catches his cheek with one of her hands and draws him up to meet her gaze.

    “Hey,” she murmurs. She tries to smile, and finds it isn’t as difficult as she expected. “Hi.”

    He tilts his head, knocking it against her own again, eyes still locked with hers. Instead of returning her words, Bellamy presses his lips to hers once more, this time in a close-mouthed kiss that’s less sexual than hungrily—achingly—earnest.

    “I want this to be real,” he whispers.  He confesses so quietly, like the words must be kept secret even if Clarke is the only person around for miles to hear.  Currents of water eddy around their bodies, and the sun tickles the back of her neck.

    “It feels real for me,” Clarke says. She kisses him this time—with slowness, with purpose. His whole frame shivers underneath her, and she knows that this river, this day, this moment will belong to them forever. 

    “So?” Bellamy asks, willing to give her the lead. Choosing, always, to see where she will take them.

    Clarke finishes the thought against his lips: “So let’s make it real.”


End file.
